Cockandbull Correspondence from the Cupboard
by Twisted Biscuit
Summary: Draco Malfoy, War Hero apparently, goes into hiding in the cupboard under the stairs of Number 4 Privet Drive. This is a record of his ordeal, in his own words. The veracity of his words is, naturally, open to debate...
1. Preface

**Disclaimer:** Shockingly enough, I don't own Harry Potter. Nor do I own anyone or anything associated with the franchise. If I did I would be sitting in the Maldives trying to upgrade my 'tan' to white, rather than its current pale blue. As it is, I'm sitting huddled inside with broken central heating, about eighty-seven jumpers on, and enough rain outside to make me ever-so-slightly compelled to build an Ark. I'm fairly certain you can join the dots.  
**Author's Note:** The following account is intended to be Draco Malfoy's own interpretation of the events surrounding his current (non-canon) situation. As such, very little of it is factual, absolutely all of it is skewed, and at least fifty percent of it is downright libellous. You have been warned.

* * *

**The Night Before Day One:**

In almost every violent conflict throughout history, there have been certain poor, unfortunate souls unlucky enough to be forced into hiding. They do not do so for their own benefit, but rather for the benefit of others.

I, Draco Malfoy, am one such soul.

Over the years I have done many things to help fight the wanton favouritism and bias displayed within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, attempting to knock the glorified Gryffindors from their pedestal. I have made vast contributions to the Quidditch world, and brought new insight to every subject in which I deigned to participate. I have brought joy and humour to hundreds. But now, all that is at an end.

Now, through circumstances completely outside my control, I live in a cupboard.

It was a most unlikely series of events which brought me here. My father, one of the most honourable wizards of recent history, somehow became involved with a homicidal lunatic. Well… maybe that's is a little unfair of me.

Years ago, before my birth, he was involved with Lord Voldemort's forces. In this time, Lord Voldemort stood for the protection of our ways and the continuation of our noble lineage. My father dedicated years to this cause, and when Voldemort fell he was understandably downtrodden. I like to think that it was his undeniable love for me which pulled him through those tough few years after the Dark Lord's diminution. Mother helped a little as well, I suppose. Eventually, Father learned to make the most of things. Yes, life was a bit harder now that he only had his oceans of money and incomparable influence to fall back on, but he made do.

But then, thanks to the very same goggly-eyed little git that killed the him in the first place, the Dark Lord rose again. Like a phoenix from the flames. Only not literally, because that would have far too many associations with a certain headmaster for Lord "_I have daddy issues!_" Voldemort's liking. And so he rose like a snake from the cauldron. Even though that sounds mind-numbingly trite and just a little perverse in my humble opinion.

This time around, the Dark Lord had lost any semblance of sanity. He was cruel, bitter, hell-bent on revenge, and far more concerned with elaborate plots to show up Dumbledore and Harry Potter than he was with world domination. Call me simplistic, but I would have rather assumed that taking over the world and killing Dumbledore and Harry Potter would have shown them who was boss a great deal more effectively than giving Harry Potter nightmares. But apparently my logic means nothing.

Still, my father was loyal to him. He hoped that the Dark Lord would return to his former glory soon enough and that his petty and insolent behaviour was simply an unpleasant side-effect of his revivification. As a result, my undyingly loyal Father went on a dangerous mission at the behest of the Dark Lord. Most regrettably, he was caught. He was therefore arrested and locked away in living nightmare that is Azkaban Prison.

While it is fortunate that he had to spend only a few short days in Azkaban with the Dementors, he was still facing unending torment within its walls. They don't even have mattresses for pity's sake, let alone indoor plumbing. It must have been nothing short of horrific.

Once my father was brutally carried away, I, in my position as Head of the Household, volunteered to take his place among the ranks of the Death Eaters in an effort to clear his name and hold our family together. Granted, Voldemort's wand at my throat was something of a motivator as well, but mostly it was the altruistic sense of family loyalty that did it.

However, the Dark Lord asked something of me which I could not bring myself to do - he asked me to kill Albus Dumbledore.

Now I loathe that doddering old fool just as much as the next, but killing him seemed a bit much to me. Perhaps paying someone to kill him, or arranging a scenario where in he would happen to die - that I could tolerate. But actually killing him? With my own hands? I couldn't do it. Even if I had wanted to, I would not have been able to go through with it.

And so I came clean.

…Well, all right, I tried to manoeuvre the situation to permit other Death Eaters to enter the castle and kill him, thereby saving me some trouble.

And, also true, it is somewhat unfortunate that Harry Potter confronted me on the issue just after I had killed Pansy's cat and quipped that, after killing such a foul beast, Dumbledore would be easy.

But ultimately it was my unfailing sense of morality which prevented me from doing it, rather than Harry Potter's heartfelt death threats.

Either way, I was brought before Dumbledore himself. Far from being terrified of his future killer, he seemed rather amused. Within minutes he was making arrangements to have my mother taken to some sort of safe house (in Russia, somewhere, I think), and for my father to be taken out of Azkaban and sent to join her, for his own safety. That first one was legal, that second one wasn't, and so my father became the second person in all of history to 'single-handedly' break out of Azkaban. This fact would currently be doing wonders for my reputation, were I somewhere where my reputation was worth a damn.

Now that I think back on it, I can't help but suspect that the old git made some of these arrangements before I even went to see him. I mean, if he didn't then how could he possibly explain the entire situation to his Russian 'contacts' in five words? He couldn't. So he arranged everything beforehand. Git.

In return for protecting me, my family, and everything I held dear, Dumbledore expected quite a bit.

Firstly, he wanted the location of Voldemort's current Headquarters. This required a lot of guesswork/deductive reasoning from me, since I was Apparated there by Aunt Bellatrix who was simply obeying her Dark Mark when she Apparated there herself. That I only saw outdoors for two seconds before being ushered inside and then mere glimpses from windows also complicated my geographical assessment, somewhat. I don't mind telling you, however, that Dumbledore was fairly impressed with the amount of information I was able to retain, seeing as how the meeting had occurred nearly a year earlier. I suppose bone-deep fear for one's life makes them pay a bit more attention to the position of the stars and all that claptrap, which helped us to determine that Voldemort had been hiding in Yorkshire.

Frankly, the lunatic deserves to be killed by some goody-goody Gryffindor if he's prepared to stay in Yorkshire, but I digress.

Dumbledore also expected me to sign a document which gave the Order of the Phoenix (a horrendously polluted group of people, in my opinion. Potter's probably the least horrific of the lot, and that's saying something) the right to use Veritaserum on me. He said he would not normally require written ascent but "Since I was a Malfoy and all". I then proceeded to spend approximately three days being questioned by the Order on the most ridiculous subjects imaginable.

This, of course, brings me to the most disturbing part. The part where I, myself, was placed under the "protection" of Dumbledore.

After the Ministry's attack on Voldemort's headquarters, and the Order's attack on Voldemort's actual supporters (since the idiot Ministry knocked first and ended up attacking an empty building, the morons), it was fairly obvious that I was a traitor. So I disappeared. Or, rather, I spent a month living in Dumbledore's office, attempting to do my schoolwork with that damned _bird_ of his glowering at me from across the room.

Then came the holidays. During said Holidays, Harry Potter and his merry men are off on some quest or another. Shortly after they went off on this idiotic mission of theirs, Dumbledore informed me that I was not permitted to stay at Hogwarts any longer due to the various 'unsavoury occurrences which might take place there'.

So where did they decide to put me?

Surrey.

No, not just Surrey. _Muggle_ Surrey.

With some relatives of Harry Potter's, no less.

I can only assume that he's related to the pointy, high-pitched, female one, since any genetic connection between him and the blubber-balls seems unlikely, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that I have to spend an indeterminate amount of time with these people, in their hideous little hovel of a house. Which brings me to another point.

These muggles, they have an entire house at their disposal. All right, it's a rather tiny house, but it is still a house. A house with four bedrooms no less. Four bloody bedrooms, and where did they put me? Where are these primates stuffing me away?

IN A SODDING CUPBOARD! That's where. Under the stairs, at that, so that I am almost constantly distracted by the sound of that acne-ridden lump of lard waddling his way up and down stairs at all hours.

Well, all right, I've only been here an hour, but he's been up and down at least three times already.

It's cramped and dark and I'm absolutely positive there are spiders in here. The 'bed' (if you could call it that. My Grandfather Abraxas had more commodious torture devices) takes up almost all of the floor space, and there's a faint musty smell which doesn't seem particularly inclined to go away. The only source of light I have is some preposterous little device which they call a "torch". This is absurd, since everyone knows torches are wall mounted, flaming things, not small glowing metal sticks.

Bloody muggles.

To make matters worse, Dumbledore informed me that I could not leave the house for at least fourteen days, and added that he didn't recommend I leave the cupboard if I could avoid it.

AND he took my wand.

However, I will not surrender. That's what they want me to do. Those Weasleys would have a right laugh if I cracked under the pressure, and I would sooner die than grant them that pleasure. And so I will see my way through this ordeal in the same manner used by so many poor, unfortunate souls before me; I shall keep a journal. They may take my house, they make take my school, they may take my wand, they may even take away real torches - but they have not taken my quill (yet). And so it will be my lifeline.

I, Draco Malfoy, am a survivor.


	2. Week One

**Day One:**

I'm not going to last a week in here, I'm really not.

I decided to partake of breakfast with the Muggle family this morning, and it nearly killed me. First of all, while I am not entirely sure about what kind of education these muggles receive, surely it is not too terribly difficult to eat with one's mouth _closed_? When I suggested such drastic measures to the wide one with the moustache, he turned an interesting shade of vermilion and ranted about how a fugitive like me should be grateful that they were taking me in, and risking being tortured to death in the process.

I casually pointed out that no Death Eater worth his salt would waste time maiming and torturing such an insignificant creature as him, and that it was far more likely that any attacking Death Eaters would simply dispose of him and his family within a few short seconds. I also happened to mention that if the Death Eaters in question had deigned to turned up at their door, then they would almost certainly be killing the occupants of the house whether I was there or not. As this form of instant carnage would offer me very little chance for escape, I really have very little to be grateful about. Besides, I'd never show gratitude to a moustachioed gorilla like him.

For some reason he became offended, and I found myself having to use evasion techniques which I had previously only employed on the Quidditch pitch, merely to avoid his meaty fist.

If Potter lived with these apes all his life, it's no wonder he can avoid Bludgers so easily. After this lot, Bludgers had to be positively refreshing.

After the nightmare that was breakfast, I decided to stay in my cupboard for the remainder of the day. This involved me being forced to read some preposterous little muggle magazine called the _National Impugner_ or some such. I have discovered that muggles have a bizarre obsession with actors and actresses, despite the fact that they do very little of anything, so far as I can see. Additionally, a large number of these actresses have bizarre insertions into their chest which are both comical and hideous. I find myself thinking longingly of the girls of Hogwarts… Daphne Greengrass, Padma Patil, and even, in my darker moments, Pansy Parkinson, all seem nothing short of divine at this point. Anything to get the image of those doll-like creations out of my head.

The bony woman served me lunch and dinner. While breakfast was more or less identical to the breakfasts at Hogwarts (albeit of a far inferior quality), lunch and dinner were mockeries. Lunch was some hideous noodle-like concoction in a tub which proclaimed "JUST ADD WATER!" It is my considered opinion that even if one were to add vodka, it would still not render them befuddled enough to put that rubbish near their mouth. And as for dinner; what exactly _is_ Meatloaf precisely? Forgive me, but I was not aware that meat came in loaf form. In my experience it comes attached to a bone, or perhaps in a sandwich. But in a loaf? I rather think not.

After 'dinner', I sat on my bed and closed my eyes in an attempt to sleep. I was working on the basis that my imprisonment would be more tolerable if I were unconscious. However I couldn't manage it, with noises from that horrendous box in the living room keeping me awake.

I became irritated very quickly and sat up, giving the sounds my full attention. I was disgusted to hear them listening to some distressingly cheerful bint who was apparently describing the weather to them in baby talk. She informed them that it was going to be "a tiny bit drizzly in the South of England tomorrow afternoon" and so they should "pull out their brollies if they were going shopping! Ha ha ha!" It was appalling. I mean, if they wanted to know what the weather was like then surely they could just look out the bloody window like normal people, couldn't they? Unlike me, they actually have immediate access to window. Halfwits.

And how on Earth can they put up with that brainless wench talking to them like that? If my own mother had spoken to me in such a condescending manner after the age of four, I probably would've kicked her and yet they are subjecting themselves to it voluntarily. If I was not already sure of the inherent inferiority of muggles, this behaviour would reinforce my opinion, no doubt about it.

So I did what anyone would do in my position - I lay back down on the bed, this time with a pillow firmly over my ears, and began constructing elaborate fantasies where in Daphne Greengrass would somehow hear of my terrible misfortune and come rushing to the Muggle-cesspit to 'comfort' me. Preferably in the short skirt and big black boots she wore to my last Quidditch match. The Slytherin scarf would be optional this time, of course. And she'd actually have to have her hair down in some of the more detailed scenarios, rather than in that plaited thing she had it in at that game to keep it out of her eyes. Why she'd ever put hair like that up is completely beyond me…

Where was I?

Oh yeah, trying to block out the girl who was announcing the weather. So there I was, with the pillow on my head, almost managing to block that silly woman's chirpy voice, when even this small refuge was taken away from me!

A buzzing sound came from the front door. I can only assume this is the muggle version of a bell, but why they couldn't just have an actual bell is a mystery to me. They must prefer that dreaded buzzing. Anyway, the bony woman went to answer it and allowed in some grunting woman with jangling jewellery.

They both moved into the kitchen, which is distinctly closer to my cupboard than the living room, and began talking incessantly about the utterly boring activities of their neighbours. This behaviour apparently ranges from Mr. Jones's affair with his secretary, to the Greys teenaged daughter getting suspended from school again. God, who cares?

Everything I have, every small respite I could think up, they have taken away from me. Except this journal. And so I continue to write in it, in an effort to take my mind of the inane chattering coming from the kitchen, the monosyllabic grunting coming from the living room, and the never-ending noises coming from that infernal box. Not to mention my distinctly uncomfortable bed, which gave me back pain so severe that I very nearly asked the bony woman for something for the pain… before I remembered that they were muggles and would have no such thing. Glorified primates.

So yes, this place may possibly kill me. But at the very least, I'm keeping a written version of events to make sure that some justice may be dealt to the brutes, after my unfortunate demise.

**Day Two:**

As much as it pains me to say it, there had been no change in my situation. The most interesting thing that happened to me all day, was walking in on that fat child who is allegedly my age, but who I suspect has a mental age of six, when he wasn't expecting me. He was muttering away about me, though who exactly he was voicing this monologue to is a mystery known only to himself.

I entered, just as he was voicing the theory that all Wizards are 'skinny, pale, little runts with stupid hair'. I naturally attempted to respond by informing him that this was not entirely true, however if the Wizarding World had a choice between being skinny little runts with stupid hair, or glorified swine with rolls of blubber and hair that looks like it was drawn on with a yellow crayon, then we would unanimously agree upon option A. However I was one syllable into my response, when he jumped about six feet in the air and scurried off, crying.

I must say, I never thought I would long for a Weasley to taunt, but if this is the calibre of competition around here, then give me a Weasley any day. At least they don't cry.

Not that crying, in itself, is a bad thing. I myself have been known to cry. There's no shame in it. (Do you hear that? NO SHAME IN IT, got it?) However crying because some utters a syllable in your general direction is simply ridiculous.

I suppose it's just something I'll have to put up with. Just like everything else around this hell-hole.

Oh, I did make one discovery though. That great rhinoceros with the facial hair has apparently been staying home from work, in order to ensure I don't 'try anything'. What exactly I'd try, I don't really know. Although I did glance out a window today and spot a few choice potions ingredients in the gardens along the street, and I admit that the sight gave me all manner of unlawful thoughts. Still, I'm not entirely clear what I would try.

I was also a little unclear on what precisely his job was. I did ask him, but he wasn't too forthcoming. He simply said that he owned 'Grunnings'. Since I had absolutely no idea what on earth 'Grunnings' was, I looked it up in this yellow book they have next to that speaking device. It turns out that it's a company which sells drills.

Not having the faintest idea what a drill was, I looked that up too in one of the many unused encyclopaedia's lying about the place. Not interesting encyclopaedias like the ones we have around the Manor, boring ones. But anyway, it told me what a drill is. And so, I discovered that Mr. Dursley's job is selling pointed sticks. For some reason he wasn't too enamoured with this description. I don't really know why.

Don't much care, either.

In fact, at this particular moment, all I really care about is shutting up that infernal woman on the box in the living room. Bloody muggles.

**Day Three:**

Oh Hosanna, some relief at last. Even if it did come in the form of a cupboard.

Dear lord, how pathetic is that? Being grateful for my cupboard.

The old fat man went to work today. I don't think the young one works, and I'm positive the bony one doesn't, but the fat man went off to sell his pointy sticks, nevertheless. And for some reason, since he wasn't there, the bony one asked me to wash dishes.

Naturally, I told her to shove off.

For some reason, she didn't. Shove off, I mean. She seemed to think it was more productive to harass me until I did them. Which took quite a while, let me tell you. She would've been better off if she'd just done the things herself. It would've definitely been quicker at any rate. It took her eight straight hours of pestering me, and going on about how I owed her my life and rubbish like that.

I tell you, if I'd had my wand she would've been turned into a dung beetle right then and there.

Eventually I surrendered and did the things. However the bony woman refused to believe that I had never done dishes before and therefore wouldn't tell me how to do them. I broke three dinner plates, a dessert bowl, two mugs, and half a dozen glasses. I also managed to take the floral pattern off the edge of most of the plates. Something which I really don't think I could possibly be blamed for, since no one would tell me what on Earth "Bleach" was, and since the label on the bottle wasn't too forthcoming either. Surely it should have a large warning label on it saying "This stuff may take the floral pattern off your tableware".

Don't know why she's complaining anyway. Don't these people understand how trashy floral patterned china looks at the dinner table? A plain white set is far more sophisticated.

Anyway, the bony one ranted at me when she saw it. Then the fat man came home and he ranted at me. Then the two of them started a joint rant, which was shortly followed by them arguing over a comment that the bony one made about Harry Potter at least being capable of housework. Apparently the fat man thinks that Potter's just a trouble-maker, and that flattering him is indefensible.

Normally I'd agree, but the longer I stay in this floral patterned nightmare of a home, the more I find myself… well, not _respecting_ Potter, but certainly appreciating the fact that he is his own, self-righteous, sardonic variety of Annoying Little Twerp, rather than the loud, high-pitched, weather-girl-watching muggle kind of Annoying Little Twerp. Something he could very plausibly have turned into, considering the people who raised him. So it's not respect. It's a grudgingly favourable estimation. Know what I mean?

It took the bony one and the fat man two whole hours to shut up. Well, actually it only took them an hour and a half. Then I asked if they were finished, and they just started up again. It's a wonder they don't tire themselves out.

But here I am in my lovely little cupboard. Yes, it's dark and dingy, yes there's a fairly serious spider infestation, and yes I do hate it quite a lot. But it is unquestionably preferable to what's outside.

**Day Four:**

THEY INJURED ME! THE MUGGLE HEATHENS INJURED ME!

Why, if I had my wand… Oh, the things I would do to them. They have no idea. They're all so afraid of what the Death Eaters might do to them? PAH! If I had my wand, I'd make Auntie Bellatrix look like Florence Nightingale in comparison. They'll pay for this. So help me, if it takes fifty years for me to figure out how, they _will_ pay for this.

A more forgiving person would say that, technically, they didn't injure me.

However they _deliberately_ put me in a position to be injured. The bony one knew, after yesterday's escapades, that I can not clean dishes. I just can't do them. They're appalling complex things to clean. But does this dissuade her from telling me to do them again? Does this make her pause and think about what she's doing? Does this even compel her to show me how to do them?

NO IT DOES NOT!

And so, when I broke those two glasses, it was only to be expected. My new Fuehrer apparently disagreed, as she had a small fit and insisted I clear it up before her "Ickle Diddykins" hurt himself on the broken glass when he was going for a midnight snack. A midnight snack? God, how many meals a day does this woman feel compelled to shove down her son?

Muggles are disgusting.

Anyway, after her cheeks turned pink and it became apparent that she was preparing herself for another hour-long, high-pitched rant, I decided to go ahead and clean up the broken glass. And that is how I came to slice open my right hand. It is fortunate, I suppose, that I write with my left, as I would have been forced to slaughter the woman if I had been rendered incapable of writing.

The cut runs the length of my palm and, while it is not dangerously deep, it was pumping out more than enough blood to leave me concerned.

Had I experienced a similar cut, say for example in the Potions lab, I would not have been in the least bit concerned. The Professor would have cleared it up in no time at all, without so much as a trip to the Hospital Wing. I mean I probably would've gone to the Hospital Wing anyway, but that's beside the point. The point is that when I receive such a wound in a muggle household, I could be forgiven for suspecting that they are not equipped to deal with such a thing.

I was proved correct.

The bony woman just ran my hand under the cold water tap for a few moment, pressed a hand towel to the wound and told me to keep the pressure on until it stopped bleeding. I mean, honestly, how primitive can you get?

Then, when it finally did stop bleeding (no thanks to her, might I add), all she did was slap a couple of sticky things onto it. They don't even cover the cut properly, they just kind of hold it together. And they're _blue_. I mean why on earth is this necessary? The packet she got them out of said they were high visibility, but why would I want to advertise the fact that I was injured while doing the bidding a woman with yellow hair and the impulse to over-feed her child?

Complete madness.

AND my hand hurts.

Oh, they'll pay for this, I swear they will.

**Day Five:**

Oh. Dear. Lord.

I cannot begin to describe my horror at this point. It's just… I mean they couldn't… What _was_ that? Surely it was some sick joke? That couldn't possibly be a genuine appliance, could it? Maybe I should explain. I mean, I don't particularly want to explain, mind you, but maybe I should nonetheless.

Due to my injury, I was unable to do the dishes today. Foolishly, I was pleased by this fact, thinking it to be some small recompense for the aforementioned wound. How very wrong I was.

Instead of my now familiar chore, I was allotted a new task. A task which, so far as I can tell, is nothing but a thinly veiled torture method. They call it "Hoovering", and I was led to believe that it was designed to remove dirt from their many and varied floor coverings. (Including this plastic, leathery material in the kitchen, which horrifies me endlessly.)

In theory it sucks up any dust or debris into a bag ready for disposal. In practise, however, it makes a deafening, high-pitched howling noise, like an injured werewolf or something. I nearly had heart-failure when the bony one turned it on. I yanked the cord out of the wall socket (that's like cutting of their air supply, you see, so they die), and dove back into my cupboard like a startled dog.

It was a grossly humiliating display, I'll admit, but I don't care. God, that thing was horrible. If she ever turns that blasted machine on while I'm in the house, I'm going to smash it to pieces, I'll tell you that much. Well… providing I don't have to get close to it, obviously. Then things got worse. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but they did.

You see the bony one, afraid of some highly non-specific wrath being dealt to her for terrifying a pureblood wizard, tried to coax me out of my cupboard with the promise of food at around one o'clock. The food in question turned out to be some cold roast chicken from last night (which I didn't get any of at the time, might I add). She made a sandwich with it. It was still appallingly substandard, but it was sufficiently superior to my recent meals to make it worth my while coming out of the cupboard.

Once she had me out of there and eating (much to the large one's alarm), she set me in front of that infernal box in the living room and told me to watch it. Now I don't wish to mislead you by making it sound as though the bony one is in any way concerned for my well-being, because she's not. She's concerned for her own well-being and her son's well-being, and so she makes a few hollow gestures of goodwill and hopes that I won't complain too much when I'm retrieved.

Anyway, I watched the box. '_Television_' they call it.

And I'm simply scandalised.

First of all there was a show where people answered asinine questions to win pointless prizes, such as a Year's Supply of Soup (what the…?), and were asked these questions by some orange guy in a purple suit, who had the most terrifying smile I've ever seen. To make matters worse, the fat teenaged one was sitting in the room at the time and kept shouting the answers. And getting them wrong. And then being told by his mother what a clever boy he was for trying.

I mean honestly, what is _wrong_ with these people? My mother may love me more than anything, but if I get something wrong she bloody well tells me so. She'll even go so far as to taunt me on certain occasions, should she feel that I need to be humbled (which isn't very often).

Then, so help me, there was something called a Soap Opera. Since this has nothing to do with soap or operas, I'm a little unclear on why exactly they are called soap operas, but they are.

Today's episode involved a man beating his wife to death by accident (he killed her by accident, you understand, he didn't beat her by accident), something which was supposed to elicit sympathy for the wife, but honestly if she was prepared to just sit there and take it for so long then I have nothing but contempt for the idiotic woman. There was also a woman who was stealing money from her boss, a man who couldn't figure out if he wanted to marry his long-term girlfriend or run off to Barbados with another man named Cecil, and a young girl with cancer who, so far as I can tell, had absolutely nothing to do with any of the other characters, but had big brown eyes and a speech impediment, and was therefore deemed necessary on account of her cuteness. It was soul-numbing.

All of this was followed by an extremely interesting looking programme, which followed a woman in Canada who could allegedly predict the future. The bony one turned this off before I could watch it, though, as she thought it might have a detrimental effect on "Her Sweet Dudders' mind".

How anything could possibly be more detrimental to mental development than that soap opera thing is quite beyond me.

Now I'm going to go get a book. I'm also going to glower threateningly at the man with the moustache, Vera or Verona or whatever his name is. The bony one was just telling him about my incident with the hoover earlier and he's roaring with laughter even as I speak.

I rather think that _someone_ has forgotten their place, and this must be immediately rectified. One stern look ought to silence the presumptuous twerp.

**Day Six:**

These stupid sticky things on my hand are really beginning to annoy me. I'm considering ripping them off completely, they bug me so much. They really get in the way when you're trying to work, too. Oh yes, did I mention? I've been forced back to work.

The bony one -Petal? Petulance? Something like that- got all uppity with me this morning and asked me what exactly I planned to do today. I told her outright that I wasn't hoovering if that's what she meant. She responded by saying that I also wasn't washing the dishes - at least not until next week when there's a sale at something called 'British Home Stores', and she can more hideous flowery dishes. She said this with a pointed glare in my direction. The cheeky cow.

Anyway, after about fifteen minutes of my subtle insults about her heritage, and her insults about my inability to clean houses (that one really cut me to the quick, let me tell you), she appeared to get extremely frustrated and yelled,

"For pity's sake! What CAN you do?"

So I told her about my classes at Hogwarts, and the things that my grandfather taught me before he died, and things like that.

Once the colour returned to her face, she asked me if 'Herbology' was the same as 'Gardening'. I told her, quite scathingly, that the only vague similarity they had was that they both involved plants. She apparently considered this similarity enough, and sent me out to do yard work. Even though I was never even very good at Herbology, and even though Dumbledore didn't want me leaving the house. She told me I was doing yard work or I wasn't getting fed.

Yard Work basically involves slaving away at a flower bed in the blistering hot sun.

And, obviously, pretending not to notice when the Dursley boy wanders past with a gigantic ice cream cone and a smug expression. A smug expression that would probably even make Hannah Abbot give up her pacifistic way and hit him with a brick.

I was quite disgruntled with the entire situation, I don't mind telling you.

Of course, things perked up quite drastically when the girl who lives across the street walked by. The Dursley boy got so flustered that the ice cream slipped off his cone and onto his t-shirt. He then turned bright red, pretended his mother was calling him, and hurried inside. I don't know why, though. Well, I mean, I do know _why_. Any idiot could tell you that he fancies her. What I mean is that I don't know why he fancies her.

I suppose she was attractive, in a morbid kind of way. She'd done something to her hair, though - Most of it was black, but certain areas were purple. Her fingernails were purple, too. She had black stuff around her eyes, and about eight piercings in each ear. She was also freakishly pale and skinny. I don't mean pale and skinny like _I'm_ pale and skinny. I mean pale and skinny like famine victims in Transylvania are pale and skinny. And who in their right mind voluntarily wears all black when it's twenty degrees out?

The most exasperating thing about the sighting is that the girl reminds me of someone at Hogwarts. I can't for the life of me figure out who, though. It's not important, I suppose.

What is important, however, is that with some very gentle prodding, I got the Bony one to give me a fifteen minute monologue about the girl, and all of her activities in the past five years, ever since she moved here from London. Honestly, I thought the Ravenclaw girls were fonts of information, but they've got nothing on Petal Dursley. Or whatever her name is. I suppose that when you can't do magic, don't have a job and are married to a man as singularly interminable as Mr. Dursley, then one has no choice but to direct their energies elsewhere. It was revealed, during the course of this soliloquy, that the girl in question is none other that Natasha Grey, the girl who was apparently suspended from school not that long ago, and who Mrs. Dursley disapproves of almost as much as she disapproves of me.

After yet more gentle prodding (the woman is like a Wireless - push one button and she can blabber on for hours) it was also revealed that Mrs. Dursley is of the firm belief that her dearest Diddikins is hankering after some girl called Ellen Eccles, who wears _the sweetest little bow_ in her hair and wants to be a Home Economics teacher when she grows up. I don't know what a Home Economics teacher is, but I somehow doubt that it's interesting.

Safe to say that I don't think her darling boy quite shares her taste in prospective girlfriends. More to the point, later on when Mummy Dearest mentioned this Ellen person, her son got an expression of utmost horror on his face and quickly changed the subject.

I only mention all this because it constitutes what we Slytherins affectionately refer to as "leverage". Yes, you know, I suspect that life around this hell-hole will become distinctly more pleasant after I have a little chat with Diddikins.

**Day Seven:**

A highly uneventful day.

Had a nice little tête-à-tête with Dudley this morning, which I suspect will make my life much more comfortable for the following week.

I also ripped blasted those sticky things off my hand, much to the alarm of Petunia Dursley (that's her name, by the way) who believed that I was risking imminent death. Predictably enough the wound had healed, and she had nothing to complain about. Now she keeps looking at me suspiciously and muttering about unnatural healing ability. I really can't pretend to care, though.

She told me to do some more yard work, but Dudley was _kind enough_ to volunteer to do it for me. Have since learned that Muggle ice cream isn't half bad.

To tell you the truth, I'm only writing in this thing to alleviate boredom. The household chores may have been infuriating but at least they filled in the time. I'd watch some television, but no matter how bored I am I really can't see myself killing off brain cells just for laughs.

Maybe I'll go for a walk later. Just to fill in the time. I mean the Death Eaters don't know where I am, and it's not as though it could really hurt all that much. Yes, I think that's what I'll do. Just a nice short walk around.

I mean what's the worst that could happen?


	3. Week Two

**Day Seven, continued:**

Oh, no. Oh, Lord. Oh, this cannot be good. What was I thinking? Why didn't I listen to my father? What is _wrong_ with me? "Always look after your investments, Draco, " he told me. I do realise that it's not directly applicable but, if looked at from the right angle, that is precisely what I have neglected to do.

I should be locked away, so I should. Wait. I already am locked away. But I meant at Saint Mungo's, or, or, Azkaban, or one of those places where crazy people who are dangerous to themselves and society at large are locked away so they can't do anymore damage. I should be locked away in one of THOSE places.

I mean, I had it good, didn't I? I was all set. I had the Dursleys all figured out, I had Dudley Dursley as putty in my hands and I was free from doing anymore chores for the remainder of my stay; I even heard that Petunia woman talking about putting me in the guest bedroom to save my back. And what do I do? I ruin it.

I spoke to Dudley yesterday. (You were already aware of this, I'm sure, but I'm going to elaborate.) You see, I mentioned that Petunia Dursley disapproves of the Grey girl almost as much as she disapproves of me. I was, and am, also of the opinion that the Dursleys approach to Wizards is rather like my family's approach to Muggles. Based on these to assumptions, I was able to come up with a comparable situation: If Dudley Dursley were a Pureblood Wizard (proper Pureblood, not like _Weasley_ pureblood), then Natasha Grey would be like a Muggle so far as Mr. and Mrs. Dursley are concerned… I suppose she already IS a muggle, but I mean in the metaphor.

After I gained this insight into the situation I, naturally, turned it to my advantage by threatening Dudley and implying that I would tell his parents unless my life got more comfortable. He agreed quite readily and so my life got more comfortable. Of course it only lasted for one short day, but that day was undeniably more comfortable.

With this in mind, I admit that I became a tad audacious. I snuck out the back door and meandered down to something called a Newsagents. This was my first mistake.

My second mistake (even though it technically occurred before the first mistake) was cavalierly wearing my own muggle clothes, bought solely to get me through King's Cross without causing a fuss, rather than highly dubious muggle clothes left by Potter. My own clothes could be described as somewhat out of date, I admit, but they were perfectly serviceable nonetheless. I was wearing a perfectly acceptable pair of black slacks and a white dress-shirt, black braces and black neck-tie. A garb which Petunia informed me looked "Positively Victorian"; I don't really know what that means, but she disapproved so it must be a good thing. Now there's absolutely nothing wrong with this ensemble. As a matter of fact, I thought I looked rather dashing when one considers how difficult it is not to look idiotic in Muggle Clothing.

My appearance was not well-received, however.

All the way along the street, people were staring at me or pointing at me or, in the case of one rodent-looking little simpleton, sniggering and calling to his friends "Just wait till Big D gets a load of him!" I haven't the faintest clue who Big D is, or why he would want anything to do with me. And, frankly, until such times as I've dealt with Dudley Dursley, I consider this a good thing, as I cannot handle more than one antagonist when I'm unarmed.

You see, I obviously did not intend for my attire to attract anyone's attention. I am a man on the run, and as such I cannot afford such publicity. But attract attention is precisely what they did. And whose attention did it attract? None other than Natasha Grey, the morbid, aspiring vampire I was blackmailing Dursley with in the first place. She walked up to me in the sweets aisle and told me that I looked "very Gothic chic. Like an albino Edgar Allen Poe or something". Evidently she meant this as a compliment, though I did not take it as such and simply stared blankly at her.

Now, in Hogwarts, when a chap stares blankly at a girl after she gives him a compliment, the girl tends to take it as the universal sign to go sink her claws into some other poor sap, and acts accordingly. But not this Muggle. _She_ just stood there nodding at me for a while before saying "Stoic? That's cool." and wandering off looking pleased with herself. At that point, I think I could be forgiven for assuming that she had some mental problems. And so I treated her as I would treat any raving lunatic: I pointedly ignored her and her inane prattling and went about my business.

(My business, by the way, involved nicking some sort of chocolate bar while the elderly man who ran the newsagents wasn't looking. It had these little crystallised minty things all the way through it. It was quite nice. I would've paid for it, of course, but the only money I had with me were galleons and sickles, so I had to resort to theft for something as insignificant as a chocolate bar. God, I'm so pathetic at the moment that I'm practically a Weasley.)

When I exited the establishment a few minutes later, she was there; waiting for me. She made several attempts at conversation, but failed miserably each time. Eventually she said something about things called "C-Ds" and then mentioned her "Smashing Pumpkins". I plainly said I didn't care how smashing her pumpkins were and told her to get away from me. When she continued to linger I stated, quite clearly, that even if she were the last black-swathed, death-obsessed, empty-headed Banshee-in-training alive on planet Earth, I would still prefer to spend an evening chewing off my own arm to spending five minutes feigning interest in her moronic little obsessions.

This finally got the message through, and after a moment of staring at me with and expression like a cow staring at a Hungarian Horntail, she turned and fled. Not a moment too soon in my considered opinion.

So I wandered back to the Muggles' house feeling altogether quite chuffed, both at my successful outing and at having unburdened myself of the Muggle Hag so effectively. No sooner had I returned to the house than I had Dudley Dursley threatening to "wallop" me for hurting the bizarre little bimbo's feelings. He did not proceed to do so, but I know better than to flatter myself into thinking that this fact had anything to do with me. Rather, he did it because he could not at that time think of an excuse to deck me that did not involve Natasha Grey and he knew his mother would ask after his motives. He couldn't very well say "I heard that he insulted some cadaver-like creature whom I've been lusting after", could he?

How, precisely, he heard about the incident in the first place is quite beyond me. But he did.

Now that I think of it, as I entered the building I thought I heard him talking to someone called "Piers", even when there was no one around. Perhaps he was using that speaking device of theirs. No matter, I suppose. The point is that he heard about it, and he was less than pleased.

In fact, if one were to combine his displeasure with this incident and his displeasure with being blackmailed into doing gardening all morning, one could be forgiven for describing Dudley Dursley as distinctly miffed. In this barbaric, uncivilised hellhole, brawn is more important than skill or talent. This means that Dudley Dursley being miffed is a highly dangerous situation for yours truly. It probably wouldn't be if I had Crabbe, or Goyle, or preferably both with me - but I don't, and so it remains highly dangerous.

And whilst Potter may be perfectly happy suffering curses, jinxes, bruises, cuts, broken bones, burns, poisonings and so on, I myself am highly adverse to pain. I would not go so far as to say that I am _afraid_ of pain, _per se_; simply that in any given situation I will avoid it at all costs.

I am therefore staying in my cupboard, until Dudley's displeasure has passed. It is my belief that this will improve my chances of leaving this nightmare intact.

To be honest, I don't even understand why he's upset. It's not as though I encouraged this impudent strumpet's advances, or somehow stole her from him. He's welcome to the vacuous tart, it makes no difference to me. The only reason I would ever have any interest in her is if I could somehow tie her down and force her to reveal to me who, precisely, she reminds me of and stop my mind from pondering it at inappropriate moments. However I doubt she'd be capable of intuiting who she resembles at Hogwarts, thereby rendering her useless once again.

Still, I suspect I'd be better off if I didn't try to explain my reasoning to Dudley Dursley.

**Day Eight:**

Holy God, I'm actually hungry. I don't think I've ever been hungry before, but now I am. I'm really, genuinely, for the first time in my life, hungry.

It's horrible, too.

The Petunia woman said that she refused to feed me unless I came out of my cupboard and behaved like an adult. The implied insult alone would have been more than enough to get me out of here on a normal day. However today it was followed by the Verona man grunting about having a word with me for "endangering his loved ones by gallivanting off wherever I pleased" and Dudley Dursley's agreeing that he, too, wanted a word with me. I mean the only reason I escaped him yesterday was that he didn't have an excuse to hit me. That is no-longer the case, since his father just provided him with one, and so I am not going out there.

I will just sit in here and continue pondering who would win in a fight between Vincent Crabbe and Dudley Dursley, if both were unarmed. I must admit that the idea of witnessing such an altercation amuses me greatly. Not because of the violence, precisely, but because it would amuse me to see a battle of wits between two such singularly witless individuals.

Other things I have been pondering as I sit here in my cupboard include who Natasha Grey reminded me of. I believe I have finally puzzled it out -

She reminds me of Lavender Brown.

I know that this may seem like an odd comparison to anyone with even a glancing familiarity with Lavender Brown and Natasha Grey, but it is who she reminds me of, nonetheless.

They both have the same slightly vacant stare, the same urge to discuss meaningless drivel as though it were somehow central to human existence, and the same maddeningly superior look commonly associated with clueless dolts who believe they are connected through suspicious and highly unspecific means to some "Higher Power" that we mere mortals could only dream of. In fact, if one were to take away the black lipstick and pink lipgloss, the black clothes and jangling bracelets, the heavy combat boots and the sparkly hair accessories, it is my belief that Natasha Grey and Lavender Brown would be virtual duplicates of one another.

They even have the same small, excessively turned-up noses, for pity's sake. And one may never overlook the important of noses in assessing someone's character. For example: Albus Dumbledore has a big, bent, highly unattractive nose and is a scheming manipulative git. Severus Snape has a large, less-than-flattering nose and turned out to be a traitor (so am I, I suppose, but unlike him I have a valid reason). Viktor Krum - well he appeared to be a regular sort of chap for a while, but look at what taste he turned out to have! Had I paid more attention to the nose, I assure you, I would have known him as a muggle-loving, cradle-robbing egotistical cockroach right from day one.

Why people never listen to me about these things is quite beyond me as they make perfect sense. Or rather I think they make perfect sense, but I haven't really eaten anything today and am, to tell you the truth, quite out of sorts because of it.

And to make matters worse my "torch" is starting to flicker on and off at the most inopportune times. It is exceedingly irritating, I'll have you know.

It's not as though I ask a _lot_ of these muggles.

A dependable light source should hardly be too much to ask.

The blasted thing is going to out completely in a moment, I'm sure of it. I suppose I'll have to stop writing then. I'll just sit here and ponder things like Daphne Greengrass's hair, and whether or not Crabbe could actually be beaten up by a muggle. Yes, that's what I'll do.

Time will just fly by, you'll see. In a few hours I won't even think about my growling stomach, or the fact that I can smell Petunia cooking sausages for lunch. You'll see.

**Day Nine:**

I do not believe… I mean there are certain things one will tolerate… He's only a _Muggle_… I suppose I'm partially to blame… But he's still just a MUGGLE…

Although, I will admit that it was partly my own fault as I let my instincts get the better of me. Yes, I admit it: I snapped. I couldn't cope - I left the cupboard.

Well I was _starving_!

I've never been that hungry! I was practically malnourished! What did you expect me to do?! It's not as though I didn't take all the advisable precautions. I waited all night so that I sneak go out in the small hours of the morning, stock up on food, use the facilities and replace those little metal cylinders in my "torch". It was still dark, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley wouldn't be awake, there would be no one around, and no one need ever have know I'd left the confines of my dusty little cell.

It was an utterly flawless plan, I assure you! A plan which is even more commendable when one considers the fact that my insides were clawing with hunger, making it completely impossible to get any sleep and thereby driving me even more loopy than I was last night.

While executing this utterly flawless plan, however, I ran into some trouble. Trouble in the form of a large seventeen year old boy, leaning by the fridge with a dumbbell in hand, doing his morning exercises. I asked him about them, and have since learned that these exercises were insisted upon by his boxing coach. Whilst I have the faintest idea what boxing may be, I somehow doubt that it's a Muggle form of needlepointing.

The boy was really quite terrifying, to tell you the truth. I know that sounds absurd, as I am a wizard and he is little more than a primate, but he was genuinely terrifying - his hulking figure partially obscured by the early morning twilight, his cold metal dumbbell moving mechanically in his hand, his beady eyes glaring at me. Most upsettingly, he spoke in quiet tones, almost as though he were taking me into his confidence. I know, of course, that he only did it to avoid waking his parents.

Even though he didn't expressly say so, I was able to intuit that he planned to inflict no small amount of violence upon me. I mean, I've spent the past six years in the company of Crabbe and Goyle, so there are certain expressions that one comes to understand and the "I'm going to beat the snot out of you in just a minute" Look is one you're not likely to forget in a hurry. So, if you could try to imagine my situation for a moment, you would understand why I was fairly eager to convince this thick-necked twerp that I was on his side.

Therefore, when he said "I realise we're very different." I did everything in my power to convince him that he was wrong.

In order to do this, I had to call upon everything I'd ever heard Potter say about them, since my own observations of the Dursley family would hardly promote kinship. Unfortunately, the only thing I could remember Potter ever saying about this lot was that it was impossible not to hate them. Again, this was not the kind of comment I had in mind, so I thought about the people Potter knew instead.

Then I remembered the Weasley twins telling Lee Jordan, that Quidditch commentating git, about a prank they'd played on a muggle at Harry Potter's house. Jordan asked if they should be pranking muggles, but the Weasley twins just said that they had no problem whatsoever pranking "That great bullying brat". Of course, they had to be referring to the boy standing before me. I therefore realised that he must have bullied Potter, so we finally had something to agree on.

I started explaining this to him. How Potter and I were rivals and how I'd played so many marvellous tricks on him, and about how I nearly got him expelled so often and so on and so forth.

Dursley was just staring at me with a blank expression, so I went on. I told him about those 'Potter Stinks' badges in fourth year, and about the snake thing in the Duelling Club in second year, and about the Inquisitorial Squad, and how I made Prefect but he didn't and so I got to do all sorts of things to him.

Then, thinking that I might be making the muggle a bit jealous with all my exploits, I tried to put in a slightly less successful story, just to even things up a bit. When I remembered that incident in third year when Crabbe, Goyle and I dressed up as Dementors to try and make him fall off his broom, it seemed like the perfect story to woo Dursley over to my way of thinking. I mean, it was hardly successful, but it was an inspired caper nonetheless. I imagined him hearing about it and all but swooning. So, naturally, I told him all about it. When I said the word "Dementor" he got this look of confusion and horror on his face - a bit like Longbottom when Snape asks him a question. I assumed he looked this way because he didn't know what a Dementor was, since I've heard Muggles can't see them, so I started explaining it to him.

After about three sentences he said "I know what a Dementor is," in this really weird, constricted sort of voice.

Then his fist connected with my face.

It was like being his in the nose by a rampaging Hippogriff! I went skidding over the kitchen table and landed in a heap on the floor. He came over and punched me in the ribs a few times, saying that I was "the lowest scum to ever walk the Earth". Honest to God! What cheek! And from a muggle too!

He only hit me a few times, but I think he knew that his mother and father were stampeding down the stairs so he stopped earlier than he would've liked, the violent brute. Then his parents came in and demanded an explanation. Obviously I was too winded to give it to them myself, so he said some rubbish about me trying to sneak out of the house and then his rhinoceros of a father tried to hit me too.

Of course, I may not be faster or stronger than the son, but the day I can't outmanoeuvre a lump like Vernon Dursley is the day you can pour the dirt onto my cold, dead body.

Before Fatso the Elder had another opportunity to go for me, his wife stepped in and said that they couldn't return me in less than mint condition. Like I was a commemorative plate or something! Of course, by this point blood was spewing forth from my nose like a bloody geyser, not that any of them noticed. It was only when Dudley suggested that they lock me in at nights from now on that anyone even looked at me, and even then it was only for a second while they all agreed to it, the barbaric bastards.

_Eventually_ I got cleaned up. _Eventually_ I got something to eat (well, if you call those sugary flake monstrosities edible). _Eventually_ I even got new metal cylinders for my torch. But while all this was happening, the Dursley Father was retrofitting my cupboard with a bolt and an air hole "Just in case they forgot about me", while Dudley spent the day watching me and cracking his knuckles whenever I looked like I was about to say something.

It has truly been one of the worst days in the history of the world. And to make it worse, I spent most of it with toilet paper up my nose.

Days like this really make a man wonder just how bad being kidnapped by Voldemort would _really_ be.

**Day Ten:**

I hope that anyone reading this will forgive my momentary lack of decorum, however it has to be said:

OW OW OW OW OW! WHAT THE BLEEDING HELL IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?!

No. Wait. Actually, not people, person. Dudley Dursley was just glowering at me and make intimidating gestures, posturing like a gorilla or something. And the other one, Vernon, he was at work all day, so he was not too terribly annoying.

It was the Bony One.

I foolishly thought that because she was related to Potter, and because she was the only one around here with maternal instincts, that she would be the nice one. I suppose she was, up until such times as she suspected her Diddykins was upset about something. I suspect she knows that it's not the fact that I was 'sneaking out' as well, she just doesn't care. As far as she's concerned, I upset Dudley and must therefore pay the price. Do you know what the price is? I'll tell.

HARD LABOUR!

THAT'S WHAT!

Hard labour that has left my back in agony and left my shoulders feeling like limp rags: I've cleaned dishes, I've weeded flower-beds, I've wiped down surfaces, I've scrubbed a floor, I've even been subjected to the hoover, but is it enough for this diabolical wench? No it is not! She's even made me clean my cupboard. Honestly, what is there to clean? I mean the floor's a mess, but since it's all covered by this abomination of a bed I don't see why she'd care. Besides, there might be spiders under there, so I'm not doing it. All in all I've been worked like a House-elf today.

If I had my wand… Oh, the things I could do to them.

But there's no use dwelling on what I don't have, I suppose. So I shall just have to find a way to turn things in my favour once again. Don't think I've forgotten that blissful afternoon, when the Dursleys were in the palm of my hand because I most certainly have not. I have four days left here, and I assure you that by the end of these four days I will have them back under my control. Or, at the very least, I'll make sure that I'm capable of walking down a hallway without Dudley Dursley slamming his shoulder into me as we pass. And I'll make sure that I never have to glance at another dirty dish for the rest of my days.

What I really need, I suppose, is leverage. And possibly a distraction. Or, if possible, both.

I'll go mull that over while I lie in that dark, clutching my shoulder and whimpering. Thank you very much Petunia Dursley's maternal instincts.

**Day Eleven:**

I, Draco Malfoy, have a brilliant plan. Well, it's not brilliant. One cannot have truly brilliant plans when one sleeps in a cupboard and eats meat in loaf form, but I had a passably brilliant notion when one considers the circumstances.

This notion was brought to fruition because a boy names Piers Polkiss came over today. I know his surname because it was stitched into the back of some jersey thing he was wearing - I think it's associated with some sport or another, I don't really know. Anyway, he came over to talk to Dudley. I was sort of reminded of that night in third year when we all slept in the Great Hall and Percy Weasley would go up to Dumbledore and "check-in". In this scenario Piers would be Percy and Dudley would be Dumbledore.

I know that's quite a stunningly obscure comparison, but it's what it reminded me of, nonetheless.

But, getting back to the point, here's how it happened: Predictably enough, I spent this morning being glared at by Dudley Dursley and ordered around by his mother. It was not an altogether surprising situation, then, when I found myself out in the back garden at eleven o'clock, repainting the fence, when Polkiss turned up to make this report. Dudley was standing in the front garden as he received his report and knew, in a peripheral sort of way, that I was there. Obviously the Polkiss boy didn't know it and, as he couldn't see me, he wasn't likely to find out. So I could eavesdrop with relative impunity.

They spoke of all manner of mind-numbing drivel going on in the general area, before Polkiss mentioned that Natasha Grey, though hurt and appalled by my behaviour, was still quite taken with yours truly and has spoken of little else. If this is true then she is truly Queen of the Demented, but that's neither here nor there. Dudley was a little irked by this observation, and quickly changed the subject, saying that he only hoped she wouldn't be twittering on about me at the company barbeque tomorrow night. Not 'the company', as in Mr. Dursley's company Grunnings, but Natasha Grey's father's company. Or rather the company he works for. Apparently it's a building firm that does business with Mr. Dursley on a fairly regular basis and so his family was invited.

It was obvious to someone as observant and empathetic as me that Dudley had been rather looking forward to seeing the cantankerous Miss Grey at this event, and was quite upset with the idea of having the experience marred by her slave-like devotion to me. It occurred to me that this was, therefore, the perfect time to implement my plan.

Now I don't know if you know this, but I happen to be a fairly dab-hand at whipping up a potion. True, the extremely complicated theory work does tend to get me a bit turned around, but the actual brewing of a potion is elementary if you're me. Since I don't have a wand, and since I absolutely must change something about Dudley's predicament, just to make my life tolerable once again, I decided that a potion was the best way out of my worries.

Allow me to explain my reasoning: If Dudley's happy, he's unlikely to beat me up again, which means that the chances of me sustaining more facial trauma are significantly lowered. If Dudley's happy, his mother is happy, which means that the chances of me ever again going near a vacuum cleaner are nonexistent. And if Dudley's happy, his father will drift back off into the world of Not-Caring as he flicks through that idiotic muggle rag, The Daily Mail. This makes all the Dursleys. And as they are the only people I will have contact with over the next three days, they are my main concern.

The plan burst forth, fully-formed in my mind. Like a good little Slytherin Potion-Brewer, I immediately abandoned my allotted task and scaled the opposite fence so that I could flit around and collect the necessary ingredients.

You see, I intend to dose Natasha Grey with such a potent potion that she will fall head-over-heels in love with the youngest Dursley. This will, at the very least, distract Petunia and Vernon's attention away from me when they find their Little Prince getting it on with the Inferi-Empress under the refreshments table. Or will, at the very most, leave Dudley Dursley ecstatically happy and indebted to me for life.

You could be forgiven, gentle reader, for assuming that I am talking about a Love Potion. Indeed, if I had the resources that would probably be my first choice. However I don't have the resources - I'm in suburban Surrey, living in a house where there's no such thing as an open flame and where the closest thing I've got to a pewter cauldron is a pan coated with something called Teflon. I could not possibly make a Love Potion, unless I went ahead and created a brand, spanking new one off the top of my head. No, I am not making a Love Potion.

I am making a Befuddlement Potion.

It's really quite simple. Almost all the ingredients are growing in gardens around here, and those that aren't can be readily stolen from the Dursleys meagre herb collection. The same cannot be said of a Love Potion. Unless, of course, Muggles have taken to adding frozen ash winder eggs to their omelettes just for a bit of spice. Indeed, I've got almost all the ingredients stashed under my bed even as I write this.

Now I know, I know, a Befuddlement Potion is hardly the same as a proper Love Potion and, in most cases, it can hardly be expected to have similar effects. But in this instance, I think we can make an exception. I mean really, we're asking a girl to sacrifice her lingering futile hope for a relationship with me, and throw it away for Dudley Dursley.

She'd have to be more than e little addled, wouldn't she?

**Day Twelve:**

Last night, I collected all the necessary ingredients for a Befuddlement Potion and prepared them for use. I very nearly collected the ingredients for the antidote as well, but I decided not to bother. Besides, I couldn't find any sneezewort.

There was a while where I was utterly convinced that there was no Whitethorn in the entire muggle world, but I did eventually find some in the deserted grounds of a private girls' school. The only reason I found it is because they had posters up all over Little Whinging that declared they had planted a Fairy Garden, and that the general public was free to come and have tea in the aforementioned garden after paying what looks like a ridiculously high fee. I went and had a quick look around and discovered, much to my surprise, that most of the plants in there did indeed attract fairies. This fact would increase my estimation of Muggle intelligence, were it not for the fact that they were trying to attract fairies. Then again, I suppose Natasha Grey is a vain, quarrelsome little beast, and yet she seems to attract a lot of positive attention too so why wouldn't they like fairies?

In order to make the actual potion, I had to wait until the Dursleys were sitting in the living room watching that god awful box. I was able to sneak into the kitchen. It only took twenty minutes to brew the entire thing, as I had all the preparation done. I did, technically, burn a hole through one of those Teflon things but I personally consider it an improvement, since they are horrible things. Whatever was wrong with metal pots and pans I don't know. And as for that cooker… Dear Lord, what a horrid thing to work with. I mean really, whatever happened to an open flame? This thing runs on "electricity". I would've chopped the dining set to bits and set it aflame if I thought I could do so and keep my extremities intact.

But, ignoring that traumatising experience for the moment, I suppose I should be grateful that I managed to prepare the damned thing at all.

My problem now is that Vernon Dursley informed me that he and his family were attending a gathering this evening, and that I was going to be locked in my cupboard for the duration. "To stop any funny stuff."

So now I need to figure out how to sneak out of the house, find the location of this barbeque and dose up Miss. Grey, while still making the Dursley family think I'm in my cupboard. I suppose I could Apparate, but then I might be traced. And I, for one, am not being hunted down and slaughtered on my own in the middle of Muggle Surrey. If nothing else, I'd at least make sure I took Petunia Dursley down with me.

I think I'll have to examine this lock a bit more closely, to see how I can get out after they lock me in.

Normally I would just abandon the idea, and leave them to their collective lunacy. However, I caught a look at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning. My nose was crooked, my face was swollen and purple, I looked worse than that oaf Hagrid after a run in with one of his pets. And, since I'm fairly certain that I'll be hit again before my time here is up, I've got to do something to avoid it. How can I possibly do anything else?

After all, my nose is nearly a whole centimetre to the left of where is started! How can I risk any more damage to my face?

**Day Twelve (continued):**

At least, I think it's still day twelve. It might well be early Day Thirteen, I'm not sure.

All I know is that it's far too late, and I should technically be asleep. However I wanted to get this down now, as I shall be devoting the better part of my energies towards forgetting it from now on.

To start with, I suppose it all went pretty well. I mean, I managed to break the lock easily enough. Well, actually, I broke the cupboard so the when the bolt tried to lock it didn't lock into anything. I smashed it apart with my torch, and it splintered like kindling. When Dursley locked me in, I simply huffed and puffed indignantly until he left. Then I opened the door, snuck around the side of the house and followed the car.

_Why_ they required a car to go four streets over, I don't really know. But they did.

I'd gone up to Potter's room earlier and snatched an old blue jumper, in hopes of blending in. I'm not quite sure if it worked or not, but nobody bothered me, at least. I was able to slip the potion into Miss Grey's lemonade with astounding ease. I, naturally, vacated the area immediately afterwards. I hardly wanted to be caught at the scene of the crime, did I? So I came back to this hell-hole, I put Potter's old jumper back in his little den and I stole a book called "Flying with the Cannons" that I saw sitting under his bed. And no matter how dreadful the Chudley Cannons may be, they're still more interesting than anything else around here. I took it, I returned to my cupboard, and I waited.

It was nearly four hours later before the Dursleys returned. With a young female in tow, I might add. A young female who can only be described as a plainer, duller, infinitely less-talented version of Susan Bones's idiot cousin. Assuming, of course, that Susan Bones has an idiot cousin (which is a fairly large assumption since her family is _extremely_ well-respected). This young female was quickly revealed to be Ellen Eccles.

Yes, I'd forgotten who she was too. Until I heard Petunia simpering to her about how her son had been speaking of nothing but her for weeks. A blatant lie, of course, but one which seemed to please Ellen Eccles. It is possible that Dudley would have set both women straight on the matter, and declared in no uncertain terms that he didn't give a toss about Ellen Eccles, had he not been preoccupied.

What was he preoccupied with, you may ask? Well, I'll tell you. He was preoccupied with yanking my cupboard door practically off the hinges, sticking his meaty head inside and snarling at me to go upstairs and into the bathroom, of all places, and that he'd meet me there as soon as he got rid of Ellen Eccles.

Once I recovered the torch that had somehow fallen from my grasp at the sight of him, and stifled a manly cry of alarm that somehow managed escape my lips, I agreed to go as requested out of sheer curiosity. I certainly wasn't afraid of that glorified ape, no matter how effectively he may punch.

So, off I went to that flowery, pink-tiled chamber of horrors known as the Muggles' Bathroom. I was only there a few minutes before Dursley managed to shake off the Eccles girl and his psychotic parents. It first occurred to me that the great oaf was a bit miffed about something when my head connected with a hyacinth-covered wall tile and his forearm began pressing into my windpipe. It wasn't quite as communicative as if he'd sent a strongly-worded letter to the Prophet, but it certainly got the point across.

Somehow, I don't know how, but somehow my brilliant plan had gone awry: Perhaps the ingredients around here are substandard, or perhaps Muggles just don't have the physiology to handle a simple potion. Whatever it was, 'awry' is definitely the word one would use to describe the event.

From what I was able to gather from Dudley Dursley's snarling narration of events, the potion I added to Natasha Grey's lemonade caused her to react… rather strangely. Dudley informed me that when the Dursley family vacated the area, Natasha was skipping around her garden, twirling occasionally, and declaring herself to be a Nymph called Bubbles who embodied the spirit of dance. My observation that this was not in-line with traditional Greek mythology, where nymphs were said to embody aspects of nature, was ill-received to say the least. It would also appear, from what little information that Dudley could ascertain, that if anyone attempted to touch _Bubbles_ she would scream loudly and attempt to turn herself into a tree. A Eucalyptus tree, specifically. Which seems odd to me, as they're about as far away from native as you can possibly get in this country.

Her peculiar behaviour was written off by most witnesses as a side-effect of something called "drugs".

I attempted to point out to the dear fellow that there was no way he could possibly say it was me, as I was locked in my cupboard the whole time. His response was to rather coolly inform me that he'd seen me there, seen me slip something into Natasha's lemonade, and seen me slip off again.

As you can imagine, I was rather flummoxed. What do you SAY to that, I ask you?

Fortunately, I suppose, Dursley did not expect me to say anything. He just told me that if I didn't concoct something that would fix Miss Grey by tomorrow morning (this morning?) then he would "Be sending me back to my witchy mother in a bag". Needlessly confrontational if you ask me.

What I sincerely hope is an antidote is sitting in an emptied out milk carton on the kitchen table as I write.

I'm going to get some sleep anyway. Threats of violence and some random muggle's decent into lunacy are not valid reasons to neglect one's rest, in my opinion.

**Day Thirteen:**

Well, I suppose that was successful. I mean, Dudley's no longer mad at me, Vernon couldn't possibly lecture me here, and I doubt that even Petunia Dursley could find any domestic activities for me in my current position. True, I'll probably die soon, but at least I can Rest In Peace, without that shrew screeching in my ear.

To explain:

My valiant attempt at rest was cruelly sabotaged by Dudley Dursley who shook me awake at an ungodly hour, and told me to get dressed because I was coming with him to administer the potion.

There followed an incredibly ham fisted attempt at breaking into Natasha Grey's house. Luckily for us, Natasha Grey's slightly disturbed mental state meant that she was communing with a begonia in the back garden. After a certain amount of convincing (I think he told her that drinking the green stuff in the milk carton would please the gods and make her branches grow strong, or something) Dursley got her to drink my antidote.

Simple potions have simple antidotes, so it was fairly effective.

Upon coming to, Miss Grey was rather furious and demanded to know what had been done to her. Dursley told her that I had slipped her some 'Magic Mushrooms' for a laugh, which I thought was rather oversimplifying not only the situation but also the potion in question. There was more than mushrooms in there, let me tell you. Nevertheless, I had to take responsibility.

Miss Grey smacked me across the face.

To add insult to injury, Dudley offered to take her to the hospital for a once-over, to make sure she was all right. She gratefully accepted, and I had to stand there and watch Dudley sodding Dursley stroll off with a girl on his arm, leaving me marooned in the middle of a strange muggle's back garden.

Muttering quite creatively, I made my way back to the Dursley household, were Vernon -having discovered my absence- began yelling loudly at me. Please note, he didn't notice his own son's absence. Just mine. The man has highly confused priorities, if you ask me. He lectured me for the better part of half an hour, he was purple by the end of it, and I could do nothing but sit there quietly and take it. I mean I could've explained to him where I was and why it was necessary for me to go, but he would have just become more angry. And probably scared when he realised that I could still make potions, and lord knows that when angry people get scared it rarely improves a situation. So I just stood there until he tired himself out and then slunk back to my cupboard.

Pitiful, I know.

Then to make matters worse, after Vernon left, Petunia summoned me to do some more godforsaken dishes. Apparently British Home Stores pulled through, because there were even new dishes to be done. I was delighted, I'm sure you can imagine.

As I was standing elbow deep in warm, soapy water and feeling distinctly sorry for myself, that wide, lard-arsed, swine, Dudley Dursley practically skipped in through the back door, grinning from ear-to-ear and humming a little tune. I don't claim to know what put him in this mood, but I can hazard a guess. That guess has bad hair and a vacant expression. To think I had a steak knife in my hand at the time as well, and I didn't use it.

Upon seeing her only son stroll through her back door, Petunia Dursley was alerted to the fact that he had been out. Rowena Ravenclaw would've doubtless found a kindred spirit in the endlessly observant Petunia Dursley and her incomparable deductive reasoning skills.

When asked just where he'd been at that time in the morning, Dudley did the unthinkable and told her. I mean, I would never go so far as to say that we had an understanding, but it seems to be in pretty poor spirit to sell out the chap you've just attempted to break-and-enter with not three hours earlier, wouldn't you say? In fact he not only told her where he'd been, he did so with explicit detail and even explained to his stunned mother precisely how and why Natasha Grey really wasn't at fault, and how she was just like them in a lot of ways. To my eternal dismay his mother agreed, saying that Miss Grey '_really couldn't be blamed at all_'.

Yes, she bloody well could! She decided to throw herself at me, and then go off telling people about it to get me in trouble! How could she not be blamed?!

Sadly, Petunia took a similar attitude to her son and proceeded to beat me about the head with a rolled up newspaper, screaming that I will be the death of all human decency. A pretty special moment being told by a woman who thinks meat comes in loaves, that _I_ will be the death of all human decency. In response, I abandoned the dishes and took refuge in my cupboard. It was a relief, let me tell you. I would've started documenting events then and there, but I was still pretty tired so I decided to take advantage of my humiliating experience and close my eyes for a while.

Less that five-minutes had passed when I was rudely interrupted by a gigantic fireball appearing approximately three inches above my head. Things like that do tend to wake a chap up. Quite thoroughly at that.

Of course, it wasn't a fireball. In fact it wasn't even gigantic, it just seemed to be larger than it was because of my confined surroundings. I refer of course to Dumbledore's damned phoenix. That _bird_, whom I resolutely detest, was carrying a note from Harry Potter. The combination of the dratted phoenix and a note from Harry Potter would, normally, be enough to send me over the edge. Only the fact that the note contained details of my departure tomorrow prevented me from spontaneously combusting, I assure you.

I had to scribble down a response for Dumbledore before the bird would finally go, leaving yours truly in the very confusing state of feeling simultaneously cheered and furious. Anyone who has ever experienced a similar blend of emotions knows that it is a highly volatile state to be in, and that just about anything can tip the scale one way or the other.

When Vernon came home early, however, my mood was tipped quite excessively towards the 'furious' side of the equation.

He was home early because Grunnings had closed early. Grunnings had close early because the machines that make drills were not working. The machines that make drills were not working because one tiny bit of machinery was broken and had to be replaced. This tiny replacement bit of machinery was not there because it had not arrived on the plane in London this morning like it was supposed to. It had not arrived on the plane in London this morning like it was supposed to, because the planes cannot operate in the fog. The planes cannot operate in the fog because… oh who gives a toss?

The point is, through some twisted logic or another, Vernon Dursley was blaming the fog in London for his bad day at work. The way he was going on you'd think that the God of Weather had suddenly decided to abandon his post for the day and toy with Vernon sodding Dursley, just for the fun of it.

Wanting to disavow him of this highly narcissistic notion I told him that "all this ruddy fog", as he put it, was actually a side-effect of Dementors reproducing. Something they were doing a lot of, particularly in highly populated areas like London, where they could devour the souls of the innocent with as much ease as most of us pick daisies.

Rather than say something like, "_Thank you for informing me of that interesting fact, Draco, I now realise that my own petty problems are meaningless when compared to a swarm of soul-sucking fiends decending upon the nation's capital, and will endeavour to control my self-important ramblings in future_" Dursley took this information and turned it into an anti-magic diatribe.

I was prepared to grin and bear it, for the most part. That was until he voiced the opinion that he didn't know why those 'Demented-Thingies' should be feeding on normal people anyway, when from what he'd heard from Dumbledore there were plenty of 'my lot' locked away on 'that prison of mine' which the Dementors could happily snack on. In hindsight, I realise this was just his brainless ranting rather than a direct attack on my father or suggestion that my father should have his soul removed just to save his useless hide, but at the time the difference was negligible in my opinion.

I snapped.

I ranted, I raved, I told Vernon Dursley in explicit detail everything that was wrong with him and his stupid moustache. I insulted his house, his car, his stupid pointed sticks and I told him what I would do to him if I'd had my wand at that very moment. Even his wife and child refused to interrupt me, so I was either intimidating-looking at the time or they silently agreed with me.

In retaliation he did pretty much the only thing he could do - he told me to get out of his house.

So I did.

I snatched this up before I went, threw a footstool through the television for good measure and strode out of there with my head held high. It was, I don't mind telling you, an impressive sight.

Slightly less impressive is the sight of me at the moment. After walking around for a few hours, I finally came in here and decided to kip down for the night. I'm not sure where here is exactly. It's just a small plastic hut-thing with a sign saying "Bus" beside it. I suppose busses must mean different things to muggles, because this thing is most certainly not a bus. Busses have beds and hot chocolate.

This thing doesn't even have a seat.

God I hate my life on occasions.

**Day Fourteen (Hallelujah it's almost over):**

That note I mentioned from Harry Potter? The one detailing my departure from Little Whinging?

Well it said that I was to be standing at the bottom of Privet Drive at seven o'clock this morning. It's six o'clock, and here I am. That is how pathetically desperate I am to get out of this nightmare.

According to the note, Harry Potter and his assorted cronies will appear at seven o'clock and transport me to a North Sea Port where the Durmstrang School Ship will be waiting to transport me back to that school. Once there, I will be transported to my parents' current location in Russia. (Why they couldn't just send me there in the first place was kind of glossed over. Personally I think Dumbledore just enjoys toying with me.)

When I get to wherever I'm going in Russia, my mother will ask me how the past six weeks have been for me. Back when I was living in Dumbledore's office, I would have said "Boring, depressing, frustrating and generally aggravating". As I sit here on a stone-cold wall, having spent my evening freezing my arse off in a plastic hut, trying to get comfy on concrete, and being awoken at one point by an annoyingly well-meaning Ellen Eccles (who offered me a leaflet for a church, which was tremendously helpful), I do not think that the word "hellish" would be overstating things.

Dumbledore, I'm sure, would like me to think of what I've learned. Well what have I learned?

Famous Muggles are horrendously ugly? Television is evil? Even ugly, wide people with no discernible personality can get a date if they happen to have the antidote to a harmful potion? I'm scared of hoovers? Really, I wouldn't call any of this essential life knowledge. Oh, well, there is one thing. Harry Potter isn't as annoying as he could have been. That saving grace of his is, however, disappearing quickly with every moment he makes me wait.

I suppose, if Dumbledore asks, I could just give him this thing and say "Here, read that you old coot. Then you'll see what I learned. Happy now, you bastard?"

Actually to hell with it, that's what I'll do. I'll send this to Dumbledore.

Here you are, you old sod. Revel in the results of your sick and twisted experiment, and imagine me making various rude gestures at you for the rest of eternity, you sadistic prat.

Oh and by the way? I should've kicked your damn bird.

I don't like you.

I don't like Harry Potter either.

And I sure as hell don't like Muggles.

Now would your bespectacled little idiot hurry up and get here, so that I can go see my mother and father? See, because I actually _like_ them…


	4. Postscript

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I arrived at the end of Privet Drive at seven o'clock this morning to give Malfoy his Portkey to the Durmstrang Ship. He threw a small notebook at me and told me to give it to "That old bastard and see what he makes of it". I must assume he meant you. Incidentally, Malfoy appeared to have a freshly broken nose, and various other minor injuries. The people from Durmstrang will be able to fix him up easily, but that won't stop him whining, just so you know.

After Malfoy left, I went to check on the Dursleys. After a fairly garbled conversation with them, I decided to contact you and request that a memory charm be placed on a girl named Natasha Grey. Mafloy apparently poisoned her with something that made her prance around calling herself 'Bubbles' and believing she could turn into a Eucalyptus tree. She's fine now, though. Actually, you needn't bother.

I can hardly believe I'm writing this, but Dudley took care of it all.

I'm meeting Ron and Hermione in an hour, we've got a lead of sorts on the locket. If Mundungus Fletcher turns up in Saint Mungo's by the end of the day, I should warn you that it probably wasn't Death Eaters.

Also, just out of curiosity, you know those special effects sweets they sell in Honeydukes? Is it legal to give those to Muggles? You see, after our brief but enlightening conversation, I feel the need to buy Dudley a present and I think the former-glutton in him would appreciate some exciting new sweet experiences.

Yours, Harry.

P.S. I just had a quick flick through Malfoy's notebook. I don't think you should read it, Sir.


End file.
